Upsettling Thoughts on the End of Days
by irnan
Summary: The world doesn't end in fire, or ice, or alien invasions. It ends in a storm, and it wasn't even Sam's fault. Not really. Crack!fic


_Own them? I wish._

_AN: This ridiculous fic is what comes of crazy people like me finishing their thirty-fifth rereading of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy just two hours before „Mystery Spot" airs on British TV. Don't say I didn't warn you. "Upsettling" is a portmanteau word stolen from Neil Gaiman's poem "The Hidden Chamber"._

**

* * *

**

Upsettling Thoughts on the End of Days

"At least we have the satisfaction of knowing all the official authorities were completely, utterly, and totally wrong about it," Dean says with gloomy smugness.

"But I suppose you could have predicted this, could you?" Sam wants to know. If he had more energy, he'd snap, but he doesn't, so it comes out a bit hopeless.

"Well," his older brother says, "you know. We _are_ from Kansas, after all."

Point.

The world didn't end in fire and ashes. It wasn't covered by ice, or invaded by aliens, or taken over by machines. No Hellgates opened, no zombies crawled unstoppable from their graves to feed on the living, no demons appeared for Sam to lead.

Instead, the world ended in wind. A hurricane that swept the whole world, near as anyone can tell, from West to East, leaving devastation in its wake, tearing through forests and towns alike, causing floods and fires and the collapse of most of civilisation.

Smaller towns are gone completely, leaving huge piles of rubble, roads are choked with trees and telephone masts and brick. Cities descended into chaos, full of looting and killing, the most ruthless gangs taking control. Whole states have become war zones, more or less. Telephone, Internet, TV, radio, none of it works, or if it does, then only sporadically. The government is in place in Washington but in shambles, officials probably spending their days running around like headless chickens. Any messages they try to send out will have to be carried by people, in cars or on horses, even. Fuel and food were the first things to become scarce.

"It's pathetic, really," Dad says. "Three hundred years ago, this wouldn't have been nearly as much of a problem. The basic structures of law and order would have still been in place. These days, if there's no computers, it's the end of the world."

It wasn't Sam's _fault,_ exactly. The ritual he used to tie Dean's soul to body – to life; to Sam – resulted in what you might call a tug-of-war with the demon holding Dean's contract, and suddenly… Sam described it later as being like that moment in a tug-of-war when the other side gives, stumbles forward a little: for the first couple seconds you just keep pulling, and as there is nothing now holding you back, everyone just falls towards you in an unstoppable rush.

Tiny hairline cracks in the barriers between the living and the dead, made by that very tug-of-war over one hunter's soul, become gaps become chasms in the space of minutes, and then they're just gone. Heaven and Hell have nothing to do with it; in fact, the Winchesters aren't even sure if they exist anymore. All the old rules have just been destroyed.

The sheer force of that implosion created the storm, spiraling outwards from the quiet California beach where the boys spent Dean's last day to sweep across the entire world.

"So Azazel was right, all along," Sam says. They're still there, by that battered beach, waves lapping at the sand, sun shining bright and cheery on the remnants of the world. "I did destroy the world."

"You destroyed civilisation," Mom tells him. "Up here _and_ Down There, by the looks of things. There is a difference, hard as that may be for some people to believe."

"And it was getting boring anyway," Dad adds, amused.

"I didn't say that!" she protests, indignant.

"You were about to," he laughs.

"Well, maybe. And, you know, maybe this was meant to be. Maybe the old order of things needed destroying before the new and improved one could be installed."

Their sons exchange a silent look, sprawled side-by-side on the sun-warmed sand. This must be the fiftieth time they've had that conversation over the last two weeks, both of them searching for some reason for what happened to the world.

"Could be worse, all things considered," Dean says, eyes glinting.

"Think we'll ever see any of the others again?" Sam wonders. "Not just Bobby and Ellen and even Bela, but, you know, Caleb, and Pastor Jim, and…"

"… Jess?" Dean says softly, faint smile tugging at his mouth. Sam doesn't know exactly what passed between Dean and Dad the night they had that huge argument – the night he found out for the first time what his own teenage years must have been like for Dean – but since then, Dean has been more the brother he remembers from his childhood than he ever has since Sam rejoined him, all his sharp edges softened, his wounds not gone, but quickly healing. "I don't see why not, Sammy. Hey, guys," he sits up on his elbows to look at Mary and John, "how'd _you_ find _us_?"

Dad blinks; Mom throws her head back and bursts out laughing. The reality of Mary Winchester is so far removed from that Djinn-version that Dean cringes when he thinks about it. The sweet, loving mother he so vaguely remembers is a sharp-tongued, cheerful, untidy, clever, blunt, uncompromising woman who loves her husband and sons as deeply and fiercely as they love each other, and her; John Winchester's equal in every way.

They're keeping secrets, Dean's sure. Doesn't matter. It can wait.

"You did make yourselves a little conspicuous, my darling boy," she says when her laugh dies away.

"Oh, did we?"

"How'd you find us," John scoffs. "First they blow open the barriers between the worlds and manage to destroy most of civilisation, and then they wanna know how we managed to find them!" He shakes his head in mocking frustration. Dean throws a handful of sand at him; Mary and Sam exchange identical contented smiles.


End file.
